


Five Views of the Kranian Death Flu

by burglebezzlement



Category: The Orville (TV)
Genre: Alien/Human Relationships, Canon-Typical Humor, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Treat, teamfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 13:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13659855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/pseuds/burglebezzlement
Summary: The crew of the Orville copes with an unexpected illness aboard the ship.





	Five Views of the Kranian Death Flu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



**I**

Later, everyone aboard the Orville will agree that Gordon was the one to bring the flu aboard. He’s on duty, laying in a course for Ryden V, when he sneezes.

Such a small thing, Ed thinks later. One sneeze to start an avalanche.

By the end of the shift, the Orville is in orbit around Ryden V, and Gordon is slumped over his console, shivering uncontrollably.

The rest of the bridge crew are trying to explain The Spice Girls to Isaac, so it’s Alara who notices Gordon’s slumping form. She jumps up and runs through the standard checks with her comscanner before paging medical to the bridge. Gordon tries to protest, but Claire shows up quickly, and starts running through the more advanced medical screenings.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, “but you’ve just exposed the entire bridge to the Kranian Flu. I just hope we can get the cleaning crew in here soon enough to avoid spreading the contagion.”

“Why would you show up?” Kelly asks Gordon. “You know Union policy is to quarantine affected officers.”

“D’want to be weak,” Gordon mutters.

“Captain Hannity,” Ed explains. “Real crusty old sonuvabitch we both served under. Used to make everyone serve, no matter how sick they were. Kind of guy who’d say pain was weakness leaving the body.”

“Wildly irresponsible,” Claire says, from where she’s scanning Gordon. “Spreading illness like this — Lieutenant, you’re relieved of duty until such time as you’re no longer a walking plague reservoir.”

Gordon nods, miserably, and lets Claire lead him from the bridge.

The cleaning crew shows up minutes later, to disinfect and scrub the bridge. It’s already too late. 

 

**II**

Ed rubs his hands over each side of his head, and hopes that the gesture doesn’t mean _you eat your offspring without appropriate ritual_ in Rydanian.

Three days of peace negotiations, and they’ve gotten nowhere. His head is pounding like a drum. The Rydanians called for Union negotiation, so Ed is here, trying his best, but the solution to the problem escapes him, and the smell of the Rydanian ambassadors is turning his stomach almost as much as the problem they’ve been called here to negotiate.

Ed tries to follow the Union’s rules about not judging other species by his limited, humanocentric view. He does. He tries. But right now, he’s sitting at a table with space-roaches, trying to get them to agree on whether non-kin are acceptable sacrifices when laying larval offspring in a living sentient. 

Both factions make Ed long for a can of Raid. 

The Rydanian language is a sibilant mixture of hisses and clicks that Ed can hear behind his universal translator. « _Your clan consumes larval offspring from your own clan_ », the translator offers, as one delegate’s sensing probosci twitch wildly. 

« _Your clan eats the flesh of plant-lives_ », another delegate says. 

Human mouths can only make a few of the noises required to speak Rydanian, and Ed understands that those are mostly the rude ones. Instead of relying on his universal translator, he has the computer set to provide a translation of his words from a small speaker on the table.

“Friends, friends!” Ed pauses, to allow the speaker to provide a long string of clicks. “Let us focus on our common ground. Both of your factions agree that living hosts are required for the incubation of your larvae.” He tries not to think about that. “Both of you want your children to be prepared for the future. For STEM jobs.” 

The Rydanians turn their blank, cockroach eyes on him, and Ed frantically tries to think of another argument. Instead, what comes out is an explosive sneeze. He’s got a booger hanging out of one nostril when he’s done. He can feel it, he can —

“Sorry,” he says. “Our crew has a touch of the flu. You know what they say, you can cure the common cold but they just make an uncommon one instead.”

« _The filth of the Union_ », one Rydanian says to the other.

« _We have heard of their uncleanliness_ », the other replies. Both delegates brush their forelegs together briskly. « _Perhaps we have been hasty in not reaching terms_ ».

“I hear this flu is super-infectious,” Ed offers. He ignores Kelly poking him. “Our Chief Medical Officer says it’s ripe to cross species boundaries.”

« _Let us agree_ », the first delegate says.

“Terrific.” Ed takes the tissue Kelly hands him. “Let’s get this deal made.”

 

**III**

Claire’s flat on her back in her bed, shivering under a blanket that seems simultaneously scratchy, not warm enough, and too heavy. She’s already taken the maximum dose of anti-inflammatories and antivirals that she, a responsible doctor, can self-prescribe.

Being irresponsible is more tempting with every shiver, every stabbing pain in her joints.

She’s quarantined herself in her quarters, but with half of the crew down with the flu, quarantine doesn’t mean time away from work. Instead, she’s teamed up with Isaac to visit crew members in their quarters, through the magic of Isaac’s cameras and a telepresence screen. Isaac’s visual sensors are in his torso, and the screen mounted above her sick bed shows her a vertiginous shot of walking down the corridor.

“I have never understood how debilitating illnesses are for organic organisms,” Isaac’s voice says, from her bedroom’s sound system. “When Caylon is afflicted with a virus, we merely shut down all non-essential units until a patch is deployed. Why is that not possible for organic lifeforms?”

Claire laughs, and then regrets it when the stabbing pain moves to her ribs. The Kranian flu varies in its presentation, but most of the humans aboard the Orville have proven susceptible, even with bleeding-edge antivirals from the medical team. 

At least a few members of the crew are still functional, which is how the Orville is currently limping its way towards its next assignment. Commander Grayson has a mild case of the sniffles, which means she’s on bridge duty with strict instructions from Claire about how to avoid spreading the disease further. LaMarr, down in Engineering, seems to be immune. And Alara seems to be unaffected so far, although Claire’s keeping a close eye on her. The Xeleyan immune system can be all-or-nothing — either no symptoms, or a complete collapse.

“Lieutenant Commander Bortus is next,” Claire says. 

“Understood, Doctor.” Isaac hits the notify button on Bortus’s quarters.

There’s a long pause before the door slides open. Bortus stands in the doorway. The viewscreen makes him look pale and sweaty, although he’s standing as if nothing hurts.

“Yes?”

“Doctor’s house call,” Claire says, knowing that her voce will carry through Isaac’s speakers. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant Bortus?”

“My health is sufficient.”

Claire peers at the screen. Skin a shade too pale, lack of flush in the cheeks — “Isaac, run a temperature scan,” she says.

“48 degrees Celsius, Doctor.”

“Bortus!” Claire sits up. “You’re burning up!”

“I assure you, Dr. Finn, I am perfectly healthy.”

“Stop it. 42 C is normal for a Moclan. 48 C — we need to get you into a cold bath, now. Isaac, I’m sending the retrovirals and the anti-inflammatories to the unit synthesizer. Bortus, are Klyden and Topa here?”

“The Captain was kind enough to give them temporary quarantine accommodations on Deck C,” Bortus says. He’s starting to tremble, ever so slightly. It must be taking terrible focus to maintain his posture. Well, it ends now.

“Isaac? Stuff him full of those meds, and get him in a cold bath. That’s an order, Lieutenant Bortus.”

 

**IV**

Ed’s on the mend by the time Alara succumbs to the disease. His headache is blessedly gone, although he’s still achy and tired, and the virus seems to have activated a long-forgotten snot fountain at the back of his sinuses.

Alara’s curled into a tight ball under five blankets, shivering like she’ll never get warm. Ed’s turned up the thermal regulator settings in her quarters, but she’s still miserable, even though a scan shows her temperature is elevated well above the Xeleyan baseline.

“You should be on the bridge,” Alara says. She goes into a coughing spasm and then breathes for a moment before continuing. “I mean it, Ed. Not taking care of me.”

“We’ve got bridge duty covered.” Ed pulls another blanket over her. “We’re fine.”

“There’s one thing I don’t get,” Alara says. “How did Gordon bring this on board? I looked it up. He hasn’t been on leave for weeks.”

“We may never know.” Ed smooths her hair back. “Come on. Try to rest.”

“Only if you do.”

Ed smiles, and curls up beside her, over the covers. He wraps an arm around her waist and lets his eyes shut. Alara’s always so strong — the strongest one aboard, apart from Isaac. He wasn’t expecting the flu to take her apart like this. From how miserable she is, she wasn’t expecting it, either.

They’re both drowsing uncomfortably when the comm unit pings. “On screen,” Ed says, reflexively, and then he opens his eyes all the way and sees Dr. Finn peering at them from Alara’s viewscreen. 

“Doctor!” Ed jumps up. “I was just — assessing the patient.”

“Oh?” Claire raises an eyebrow. “How’s she doing?”

“Fever, chills, general misery.” Ed looks down at Alara. “I’m concerned, to be honest with you.”

Claire walks him through temperature and hydration checks, and then agrees to send a different retroviral to the unit’s synthesizer. “The one I’ve been using on our human patients may not be enough for a Xeleyan,” she says.

“And, ah, Doctor….” Ed’s not sure what to say. He and Alara have been dancing around their new status for a while now, but nothing’s official. They haven’t filed the forms they’ll need to file with the Union, although Ed has every intention of doing so as soon as this latest crisis is over.

“We’d appreciate your discretion until we can announce things officially,” Alara says, from the bed, before going into another coughing spasm.

“As far as I’m concerned, everything I see here is under doctor-patient confidentiality.” Claire smiles. “I’m glad you’ve got someone taking care of you. I’m lucky if my boys shove tea and toast through the quarantine field every twelve hours.”

Ed tries to straighten his tunic, and then realizes that he’s only wearing his undershirt. “Do you need us to send assistance, Dr. Finn?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Claire looks over to another screen, and then back to theirs. “Isaac informs me he’ll be checking on me once he’s through with Lt. Commander Bortus.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ed says.

“Any time. For your patient, I prescribe rest and lots of chicken soup.” Claire smiles at them again, and then ends the transmission.

“Chicken soup?” Alara asks. “Soup made out of an Earth bird? Why would that help?”

“You haven’t tried my grandmother’s special recipe,” Ed says, leaning down to kiss Alara’s forehead. “She was very talented with a synthesizer.”

 

**V**

Gordon is dead-tired when he gets back to his quarters. With half the crew down with the Kranian flu, the bridge is running emergency shifts, one on, one off. 

He hits the doorpad. The lights are on already inside, and his mood brightens immediately.

“Honey!” He slings his tunic over his shoulder. “I’m home!”

“About time.” John steps out of the synthesizer alcove with two beers, and hands one to Gordon. “Long day?”

“Oh, man.” Gordon takes a sip of the beer. Foamy, cold, and just how he likes it. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”

John leans in to kiss him, a short kiss that’s a promise for later, and turns back to the synthesizer. Legume noodles with fauxchix stir-fry shimmer into existence — Gordon’s favorite meal.

Gordon keeps drinking, partly because _beer good_ and partly to keep his face from giving anything away. He’s hoping “boyfriend” was enough of a stupid, old-Earth type of thing to say that John won't take him seriously. It’s been tough, keeping his emotions under control, trying not to scare John off by going full Ed on this thing between them. He’s just hoping John doesn’t realize what a fuck-up he is until it’s too late.

“I wanted to say thanks,” John says. He slides the plates onto Gordon's table and sits down. “For covering for me, with the flu thing. I’m still getting my legs under me in this new assignment. Last thing I needed was the whole ship blaming me for bringing the plague on board, but I didn’t want you getting blamed for it, either.”

“Least I could do, man,” Gordon says. He means it.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you if I’d known I was contagious. I just figured it was allergies.” John shakes his head. “Yaphit’s been trying out human body sprays.” 

Gordon winces. “Ouch.”

John reaches across the table and touches Gordon’s hand. “I’m not the best boyfriend ever. You are.”

“Yeah?” Gordon meets John’s eyes, expecting it to be a joke, but there’s nothing on John’s face but sincerity.

“If you want that,” John says, and Gordon realizes, with a shock, that he’s serious about this.

Gordon takes John’s hands. “I want that,” he says, and then leans in to kiss him. The fauxchix will wait.


End file.
